


Background Noise - John's Story

by misspamela



Series: Background Noise [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misspamela/pseuds/misspamela





	Background Noise - John's Story

John Sheppard's earliest memory is of his father's uniform. He remembers the stiff scratchiness of it, his endless fascination with the shiny gold braid, and the smooth, reflective enamel of the pins. His father didn't let him play with the pins, but John sometimes snuck into the closet to touch them and to make up stories about what they meant.

He remembers thinking that the uniform was just something you got when you grew up, When he asked, his father answered, "A special breed of men wear these uniforms, son. Don't you ever forget that."

No matter what his father or anyone else said, John Sheppard never forgot.

 **1982**

The newly minted Lieutenant Colonel James Sheppard used his increased standing in the Air Force to secure a four-year posting at Hanscom, so that young John could spend his high school years in relative stability. It didn't hurt that Bedford High had an excellent math department and a struggling football team. "Go in there and give 'em hell, son," his father had said. "Show those kids what a winner looks like." John wasn't really sure what a winner looked like, but he could play the winner as long as he had to.

John's best friend in school was Joel Karsey, the quarterback of Bedford High's now up-and-coming football team. He looked a little bit liked Rick Springfield and his mom made kick-ass oatmeal raisin cookies. On the first day of practice, he and John shared a horrified look across the herd of awkward freshmen. They made a vow right then and there to get to the state championships by their senior year. Between Joel's rocket arm and John's almost psychic skills as a receiver, they made it one year ahead of schedule. John's father was thrilled. "The Academy loves to see a good athletic record, John. You're on your way to becoming a fine officer."

When they weren't practicing or partying with the team, they sometimes went on double dates. Joel had been dating Christine Summers pretty much since infancy, so that was always a set deal. John never had a girlfriend for very long.

His mom, who didn't pay attention to much outside of her bridge club and Manhattans, suddenly decided one day that it was her job to find John a girl.

She swept around the room, fluttering her hands like they were two spindly, trapped birds. "But darling, what about Lucinda?" Lucinda was General Foster's niece.

"Lucinda is a twit." John rummaged through the fridge for a Coke.

"Sweetie, she's very important. Daddy thinks –"

" _Daddy_ thinks she's a twit too." John leaned against the counter and smirked. "I tell you what, you find me a General's niece that's smarter than I am and I'll date her, okay?"

Mom gave up after that. He dated a series of Christine's friends and an always-varied assortment of cheerleaders, never pushing the relationship much past a month or so, just after the movies-and-making-out stage. They always wanted too much of John, pushing and prodding and poking into him. John was terrified that they would discover something, anything …who he was, who he wasn't. So he smiled and flirted, and always moved on as quickly as he could. He wasn't really bothered by the fact that none of them pursued him any harder, and managed to be amused that, as a seventeen-year-old virgin, he had a reputation as a slut.

The night of the spring formal, John lost his virginity to Tiffany Hanson, a cheerleader who, with the right prompting, could be persuaded that John walked on water. There was never any question of whether or not they'd do it. John knew the expectations that went with the set-up: star receiver, bubbly cheerleader, illicit punch, a moonlit night in John's 1971 Chevelle SS. Even John's father just looked at him knowingly and slipped a few condoms into John's tuxedo jacket before they left.

John still wasn't entirely prepared when faced with the prospect of undoing an underwire bra in the Chevelle with .38 Special blaring in his ears. He finally got her naked, remembered to trail carefully-spaced kisses down her neck, and worked his hand between her thighs. Girls liked the foreplay stuff, and he was bound and determined to make this good for her. Even if John had no fucking clue about what he was doing. Okay, moaning, check. Condom, check. Aiming…penetration, check. He thrust his hips, shakily at first, then steadier, working as hard as his backseat would allow. She seemed to like it, from the way she was cooing and rubbing his chest, and yeah, it was good, much better than jerking off, but the condom was weird and rubbery and his arms were really starting to hurt.

When it was all over, she draped her sweaty, lithe body over his and murmured, "I knew it would be special with you." John looked into her smudged, fragile eyes and wondered what the hell she thought she saw in him.

 **1985**

One sunny April afternoon during John's third year at the Academy, he slipped into the library to grab a copy of _Moby Dick_ for his damned English final. He'd blown the class off all year and now he was regretting it. Strolling through the stacks, he heard muffled cursing coming from the back of the room. He followed the noise to a lone table against the rear wall, where another cadet was sitting, surrounded by piles of notebook paper. John walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder. "No wonder you're having a tough time," John said. "This equation is wrong." Barely glancing at the other cadet, John grabbed a pencil from the table and fixed the calculations, forcing the numbers on the page to fall in place as neatly as the numbers in his head. The guy turned around and John got his first good look at him. He had sandy blond hair, blue-grey eyes, and the most brilliant, breathtaking grin John had ever seen. He nodded at John and said, "Hey, thanks, man!"

That was how John Sheppard met Max Lewis.

John looked forward to hanging out with Max all day; he even went so far as to change his normal route across campus so they'd bump into each other more often. It worked. After a while, they were hanging out pretty much all the time. Sometimes they went on double dates, but those kind of dried up after a few weeks.

On the bus into town one night, Max said, "So I hear your dad is some kind of bigwig Colonel. You don't talk about him much"

John had a stock response to that which was something along the lines of, "Yeah, he's a great man, a great dad, and a credit to his country."

Instead, he opened his mouth and said, "My dad had to retire early because he had a few mild strokes. He kind of freaked out and now I'm his only hope for having a general in the family."

"Wow, that's a lot of pressure."

"You have no idea," John paused and stared out the window. "I mean, he's been grooming me for the Academy since birth, you know? It's just…ramped up. A lot."

Max nodded. They pulled into the bus station. "Hey, the guys are here."

"Sweet," John said, and stood up, shaking his head clear.

When they got out, Donnie was shouting at him, "Sheppard! Did Lori blow you off?"

"I don't think she'll be _blowing_ him anywhere," Tim laughed.

John smirked. "I've moved on, boys. She was getting a little attached."

"Jesus, Shep. Are you going to date every girl in Colorado?" Tim whistled admiringly.

"One at a time, guys. One at a time." John winked.

The guys howled their approval and pulled him off into town.

For the rest of that summer, John and Max were inseparable. Every Saturday, John would call Max from the phone in the quad with a "Hey, what's up, man?" And Max would respond with a: "Not much. What're you doing today?" Then, they'd be off together, hiking or swimming or drinking.

Then, one day, his "Hey, what's up, man?" was met with "Uh, hey. Listen. I'm kind of busy, John. Catch you later?"

John hung up the phone, feeling like he'd been kicked in the gut. He frantically replayed the last week in his head: Was it something he said? Something he did?

He went their usual coffee place, got a coffee and a muffin, but all he saw were screaming kids and a few old men playing chess. Then, he went back to the Academy and looked in all the student hangouts.

"Shep, buddy!" John whirled around, but it was just Donnie. Max never called him "Shep" anyway.

Donnie waved at him. "You up for some climbing? Me and the guys are headed out to Pike's."

"Nah, I'm uh…I have some studying to do. Summer reading."

"That's tough," Donnie said sympathetically. "See you around, Shep."

John went to the nearest phone and tried Max again. No answer. John felt cut in half, ripped apart at the seams. What the fuck was Max's problem?

The next Saturday, John went down to their Saturday-morning coffee place and Max was standing out front, two Styrofoam cups in hand. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," he croaked, managing to get past the tightness in his throat. "Where the fuck have you been?"

Max just handed him the coffee and said, "Let's take a walk."

They walked down to the lake, which was surprisingly empty for a Saturday morning. Max led them to a secluded area, far away from the picnic benches and the parking lot. He perched on a rock. John stayed standing, arms crossed, with his chin in the air.

Max fiddled with his coffee and set it on the ground. "I'm sorry," he started.

"Okay," John said. He could feel his whole body clenched tightly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"You're my best friend," Max continued, "and I…you have to know." He stopped, obviously frustrated. "Do you trust me?"

John frowned. "What? Of course."

"Because, John, this is serious shit. If you, if anyone finds out, I could…God, _please_ don't screw me over." Max stood up and paced around, his voice breaking.

John started to panic. His heart started pounding and his hands shook a little. He wondered, wildly, if Max was sick, or his mom was sick, or maybe Max was in trouble…"You know I wouldn't screw you over, okay?" John could hear his voice rising and cracking. "Just please tell me what the hell is going on."

"We're friends, but we can't be – it's not the same with me," Max was pacing hard now.

"What are you talking about?" John asked.

"I'm not, it's not just friendship. I can't do this best-buddies shit with you."

"Why? What did I do?" John's gut twisted and he felt numb, drained of everything except the panicked pounding in his chest. He wanted to punch Max. He wanted Max to shut the fuck up. He wanted Max _back_ , damn it.

"It's not you, it's me, I just want—" He stopped and looked at John, his normally clear eyes full of sadness. "I want this."

Max walked up to John and brushed his lips to John's.

John's mind went blank. He hadn't expected – no, wait, he did. He had expected, and he knew, knew all along, and –"Okay," he whispered, leaning in to kiss Max again.

"Thank God," Max gasped and kissed him back.

It wasn't like any kiss John had ever had. The rough feel of Max's lips, the hard curve of his shoulder under John's hand…he could feel the _click-click-click_ of puzzle pieces falling into place in his head. _This is right, this is real, this is what you want._

Max had sharp edges and stubbled skin; John felt his lips catch on the sandpaper of his beard, the calluses on Max's hands, rough and pressing hard, so different from the women John would just slip over and around and into. John couldn't get enough. He ran his hands up and down Max's back, pushing, _oh, God, he's hard too_ , until—

"We can't," Max gasped. "Not here."

John pulled away reluctantly. Right. They were cadets. Getting caught would be bad. An image of his father's face floated in his mind and he shuddered.

"Hey, I have an idea," Max said, smiling. John pushed back his fears and followed him. He'd worry about the ramifications later.

When Max finally got him alone and undressed in the back of the car he'd rented for the summer leave, there wasn't a lot of time for worrying then, either.

Max didn't change when school started, of course. There wasn't anything new about _him._ John felt jumpy, like someone was always following him. Watching him. In the locker room, during drills, during his Military Ethics class, he wondered, Do they know? Can they tell? He pushed himself harder and faster in athletics and aviation. Sergeant Kwan said that John was looking to be the best damned Pave Hawk pilot the Academy had ever seen. John could run a five-minute mile. John won an academic award for Excellence in Mathematics. His father called him once a week, pride spilling out of his words in a way that made John's throat tight. John resolved to leave Max out of their conversations, out of his life at the Academy. Their relationship was his, special and private, confined to their weekend leaves and his frantic shower jerk-off sessions. Nobody ever suspected a thing.

They got caught the night of the graduation ceremonies.

They were still in their formal dress uniforms, hats long gone, gloves long gone, and about three sheets (and seven shots of tequila, but who was counting?) to the wind. They weren't far enough away from the crowd of drunken cadets when Max stumbled against John and, unthinking, gave him a kiss on the lips. John, not really thinking either, kissed him back, with tongue.

It was bad. By the time the MP's arrived, John and Max each had several busted ribs, Max had a broken nose, and John's face was so bruised, he couldn't see through the swelling.

The medic on duty was a world-class asshole. "This hurt?" he grunted, poking at John's face.

"What the fuck do you think?" John mumbled.

John's entire body was throbbing by the time his dad came to pick him up.

Despite the pain and the silence and the angry stares, John felt something inside him relax as he got into the car with his father. Everyone knew now. There was nothing to hide. It was all…it was all gone, no more flying, no more flying, no more flying…it was all over. But, about halfway through the trip to the hospital, his father finally spoke. "Son, tell me. Did he force you? That boy forced you, didn't he?"

John closed his eyes and swallowed back his tears, wincing in pain. Apparently, it was all too much for the mighty Colonel Sheppard. He couldn't let go of his golden boy. And John…John couldn't let go of him either. He wasn't ready for people beating the shit out of him. He wasn't ready for the jokes. He wasn't ready to give up flying. He licked his cracked lips, and, for a moment, the salty tang of blood tasted like Max's skin.

"I was drunk," John choked out, his voice cracking. "I didn't know what I was doing."

His father nodded as he pulled into the emergency room parking lot, not meeting John's eyes. "That's what I thought. Youthful indiscretion. The Air Force understands some of this foolishness, John, but after the Academy …you don't want to do anything to ruin your career." He put the car into park and stared at John. John couldn't really see his face because it was swimming around in front of him. Everything was black. "We've worked too hard, son," warbled his father's disembodied voice.

John got out of the car, walked two unsteady steps, and vomited all over his father's shoes.

2003

There were a whole lot of things that John could have done to fuck up his career, and even more things he fantasized about doing to fuck up his career. (He'd imagined punching Lt. Colonel Scranton in the face so many times that it was almost like a cherished memory.)

What he never expected was that he'd fuck up his career doing his job. It was supposed to be a plain old evac run. Some soldiers were stuck in a mountain range, they were wounded, a storm was moving in. Major John Sheppard to the rescue.

Colonel Scranton called him back when he was only ten minutes away from the soldiers. He said something about enemy fire and a Marine unit that needed a ride to Kabul, but John just couldn't believe that Scranton meant that he was supposed to just leave wounded soldiers behind enemy lines, so he turned off his headset, kept going, and gave the Marines a ride when he was done. No problem.

Except that Colonel Scranton made it a problem. So he was standing here in a near-empty military courtroom in Washington, D.C. The courtroom was supposed to scare him, John guessed. Article 15 proceedings weren't really a judicial matter. Scranton must have called in a favor to get it. John zoned out, barely listening to Scranton say that he was lucky that this wasn't going to court-martial, that John should be on his knees thanking him for 30 days of restriction and an official reprimand, and, finally, that John had better pack his long undies because it was mighty chilly at McMurdo.

John just concentrated on the lovely image of his fist shattering every one of Colonel Scranton's teeth.

"Major, you are dismissed."

John managed to pull together his best salute, snapping his white-gloved hand to his forehead and jutting his chin toward the far wall. He was the picture of the perfect officer. _You can't judge a book by its cover,_ he thought, fighting the hysterical urge to laugh out loud.

He left the courtroom, aware of Colonel Scranton's eyes boring into the back of his head. John figured he should get used to that now. He wasn't the hotshot son of a famous colonel. He wasn't John Sheppard, pilot extraordinaire. He was just some asshole renegade major who was lucky to have gotten as far as he had.

But it was all over now. No more career, no more war. No more kissing ass up the chain of command. No more respect. John leaned against the wall outside the courtroom. He was sweating his ass off in his goddamned dress blues. He felt the urge to laugh again as he remembered to savor the sensation. There wouldn't be a lot of sweating at McMurdo.

The elevator doors to the left of him slid open. Hs father stepped out just as the elevator chimed, almost like a sound effect in a sitcom. _Ding! How could this moment get any worse? Ding! Look, John! All of your issues in one convenient package!_

John opened his mouth to talk, but his father held up his hand. "You've dishonored the uniform you're wearing. Never wear it again in my presence."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" John shouted at his father's retreating back. "I was trying to do my _job_ , which was to get my _men_ back safely!" Colonel Sheppard didn't answer. He just stood at parade rest, waiting for the elevator.

"I thought you'd understand," John tried. "You would have done the same thing."

At that, the elevator doors slid open again, and with a soft chime, his father was gone.

Suddenly, John couldn't fucking _wait_ to get to McMurdo.

 **2004**

John closed his eyes. The water lapped next to him; the sun shone on his face. It was nice of the SGC to give him some time in the States so he could make up his mind. He hadn't been outside without three or four layers in a long time. Not that it usually bothered him: he barely noticed all the Gore-tex. He liked the Gore-tex. He liked Antarctica. He liked just flying his days away. Did he want to give this up now? To go to another galaxy where he would, in all likelihood, die some bizarre and painful death, utterly alone?

 _Right, because that's not why you went to Antarctica._

By the time he flipped the coin, he had made up his mind.


End file.
